


Long Exposure

by gooseberry



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Arranged Marriage, M/M, Politics, Rape/Non-con Elements, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-01 05:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15135944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseberry/pseuds/gooseberry
Summary: “Hey,” Noct says, leaning across the cafeteria table to bump Prompto’s arm. “They’re planning on moving you into the Citadel this weekend.”“I know,” Prompto says, because he knows this, too. It’s another event marked in the calendar leading up to the wedding: photos together, apartment hunting, moving in together—all these milestones that probably every couple goes through, only set at the wrong angle. It looks good, though. Put on the filter, and it looks like Ignis and Prompto are just like every other couple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nan/gifts).



> Nan, I hope that you enjoy the fic, and that it destroys your feelings at least a little bit! ♥
> 
> And thank you to Lagerstätte, who was super helpful and supportive. ♥

On Thursday, a rock is thrown at Prompto’s head.

It’s been an all-over shitty spring, and Prompto knows that tensions are running high in Insomnia. It feels like there are protests pretty much every weekend, and chances are about fifty-fifty on whether the protests on any given weekend are the “Fuck War” or “Fuck Peace” types. Most of the protests are in Civic Square, and Prompto would have to be stupid to miss the upped police presence on the streets surrounding the Citadel. It’s not, like, out of control, and it’s not like they’re stopping people or throwing up random checkpoints, but it’s still really obvious that there are a lot more officers on the streets nowadays, like they’re waiting for things to boil over. 

And actually, it sorta feels like everyone’s waiting for things to boil over, like all of Insomnia is just waiting for something to explode: maybe the peace talks, or maybe the streets, or maybe—fuck, maybe the Citadel. And that’s a really disconcerting kind of thought, because Prompto’s got a chocobo in this race. Prompto’s got a lot of chocobos in this race. He’s a law-abiding, tax-paying citizen of Insomnia, and he’d really prefer it if the Citadel stays standing and the king keeps breathing and the Wall keeps doing its magical glimmer-and-shine thing. He’s also one of Noct’s best friends, and Noct is _his_ best friend, so he’d really prefer it if, y’know, nothing dangerous and/or deadly happened to Noct or Noct’s family or Noct’s friends. Just. If all the boiling over and exploding shit could be metaphorical rather than literal, and if it could happen away from the Citadel, that’d be preferable. 

But that’s not the point of this. The point of this is that Prompto’s supposed to be meeting Noct at the Citadel, and he comes up through the Civic Square exit because there’s this really great doughnut shop near the Square. He’s not thinking about much other than what he’s gonna buy, because it’s Thursday, and nothing much happens on Thursdays. Then he wanders into the Square, and into the middle of one of those “Fuck Peace” protests that’s got a healthy side of “Fuck Immigrants, Too!”

“Damn,” he says. Before he can make a decision—Brave the protest for doughnuts? Retreat to the station and come up closer to the Citadel?—a rock clocks him in the head, and he clocks out.

x

The point of this is that this is when things boil over.

x

The aftermath is pretty much a blur. Prompto finds himself sitting on the ground, some really nice people all around him. They’re asking him questions, like his name and if he has his ID and who they should call, and Prompto tries his best to be helpful. One girl—really pretty, with freckles and this bright orange headband—takes his phone and calls his mom. 

“‘M okay,” Prompto mumbles, his tongue feeling fat and numb in his mouth. “‘S okay, ‘m fine.”

“Okay,” the pretty girl says. She’s got a hand resting on Prompto’s arm, and her palm is kinda hot and sweaty, but that’s okay, ‘cause Prompto feels hot and sweaty, too. And dizzy. He also feels dizzy. “Just— Hey, hey, you okay? Your mom said your dad’s gonna come.”

“Uh-huh,” Prompto says before he swallows hard, trying to keep back the vomit that feels like it’s setting up camp in his throat.

They move him, making him get up and shuffle over to an ambulance that’s sitting really, really far away. Like, too far. Way too far. By the time they get there, Prompto’s rethinking the girl’s prettiness and whether he’ll ever want doughnuts again. He sits where they tell him—on the back step, kinda to the side so the paramedics can move past him—and he lets them check his pulse and his eyes and his skull.

He’s still sitting there when his dad arrives, looking sweaty and tired and out of breath, like he’s been running.

“Dad,” Prompto croaks, and he collapses into his dad’s hug. His dad pets his head real gently, not anywhere near the place the rock hit, where Prompto’s hair is bloody and clumped and where Prompto’s skull feels like it’s about to split in half. 

“Hey, buddy,” his dad says. “You okay? What happened?”

It’s nice and familiar and so freaking gentle, and Prompto feels an urge to cry come rushing up like he’s being swallowed by it. He wraps his arms around his dad, holding on tight, and he tries not to cry, because he thinks his skull might actually break in half if he does. “Just a shitty day.”

“I know,” his dad tells him, “but it’s gonna be okay.”

x

It’s not okay.

The injury itself is fine: His dad takes him to the hospital, where Prompto gets a CT scan, seven stitches, and painkillers, along with a long list of symptoms for his parents to watch for. He’s back home within a couple hours, and his parents dote on him; his dad makes up a bed for him on the couch and turns on the tv, and his mom calls and talks to him, asking how he’s feeling and telling him she’s coming home a few days early. Noct sends him a couple texts, mostly emojis; bandaged emojis and puking emojis make repeat appearances. Even Gladio and Ignis text him, to ask _u ok?_ and _Is there anything we can do to help?_ respectively. So that’s fine. 

What’s not fine is the aftermath, which is mostly centered on the photos—and hell, they are some photos. There’s one of Prompto right after the rock hit him; he looks like he’s collapsing, and there’s a guy who’s trying to hold him up. There’s another of him sitting on the ground, blood streaming down his head; there are people clustered around him, the people he vaguely remembers, and a girl—the pretty girl, the one with the freckles and the headband—is talking on a phone. There are photos of people helping him over to the ambulance, and there are photos of him sitting on the ambulance step, and there are photos of a paramedic pressing gauze against Prompto’s bloody head with her blue-gloved hands. There are photos of Prompto’s dad, his arms wrapped around Prompto like he’s trying to hide Prompto from view. 

There are photos of just the blood—splattered across the pavement, and spotting the collar of his shirt, and streaked across the paramedic’s glove, and smeared on his dad’s shirt. 

By the time Prompto’s mom makes it home, Prompto’s watched the Insomnian news cycles spin stories about him for a day and a half, each story getting closer to—and further from—fact. 

The initial reports are about an anonymous passerby who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some of the commentators speculate whether Prompto’s an immigrant, or maybe the son of immigrants, which makes sense: Prompto doesn’t have that classic Lucian coloring, so he can see where talk show hosts are going with it. Then some intrepid reporter on Tonberry posts a doink with side-by-side photos of bloody-face!Prompto and laughing-at-Noct!Prompto, and suddenly the stories shift. Prompto and his dad watch as commentators discuss the Immigration Problem and the Nationalist Problem and the Slum Problem, all with photos of Prompto bleeding in Civic Square sitting front and center on the screen—or at least floating in an upper corner, like Prompto and his bleeding skull is now the poster boy of All Issues and Concerns Regarding Immigrants.

“Hey. You know it’s gonna be fine, right? Your mom and me? We aren’t gonna let anything happen to you, ‘kay?” 

His dad’s arm is slung over Prompto’s shoulder, warm and heavy, and Prompto thinks that his dad would fight anyone tooth and nail if he had to. It feels good, but it’d feel better if one of the commentators wasn’t spitting, _And who knows what poison he’s feeding to the prince—without proper vetting of the prince’s companions, it’s impossible to know—_

“I know,” Prompto says, and he lets his dad pull him in for a tight hug. When his mom gets home, he lets her hug him, too—sits on the couch with his parents on either side of him, like they’ll be able to keep him safe.

“Enough of this crap,” his mom says after a while, and they spend the rest of the weekend watching movies and catching up on series they never have time to watch together. They keep their curtains closed and their phones on silent, and they lounge around in their pajamas, spilling crumbs on the couch and the ratty throws. 

Then Monday comes and Prompto’s dad has to go back to work. It’s like the world is lurking outside, waiting to chew them up and swallow them down, and it’s with this huge, existential-like dread that Prompto checks his phone.

There’s a lot waiting for him, texts and voicemails both, from his friends and his coworkers and his classmates and people he just barely knows. The voicemails seem overwhelming, so he tries the texts first, scrolling through all these variations of _u ok?_ and _omg proooooompto tell me ur ok??_

The last text from Noct—sent sometime last night, when Prompto and his parents were probably watching sitcoms and eating gummy worms—says, _everything’s ok but we need to talk. call me_

There’re still a few dozen texts waiting for him, not to mention all the voicemails. Prompto locks his phone, then opens it up again; locks it, and opens it, and locks it. Then he opens his phone, opens Noct’s text, and presses the little phone button in the upper corner.

x

“The most important thing you must understand,” Ignis continues, “is that none of this is your fault.”

“What Iggy said,” Noct interrupts, sorta helpfully. Marginally helpfully. Prompto nods and tries to look attentive as Ignis continues:

“The fault lies with whoever threw the stone, as well as those who are determined to use your attack—” Ignis lifts his eyebrows when Prompto tries to protest, and he continues to speak over Prompto: “—those who are determined to use your attack as a political tool. I want to assure you that whatever we suggest, and whatever decisions are made, they are not meant as punishment in any way.”

There’s an awkward silence. This feels too heavy, all this political seriousness weighing down the room in a way it never has before—at least, in a way it’s never weighed down the room for Prompto before. He knows, in a distant sort of way, that this is probably the kind of stuff that Noct and Ignis and even Gladio deal with all the time, because they’re, y’know, the prince and his retinue. Prompto’s different, though. Prompto’s always been removed from the actual politics of the Citadel, and even the politics of Noct’s life. It’s one thing to see Ignis dragging files in and out of Noct’s apartment, and to hear Noct complain about the same files; it’s something very different to be at the center of the issue, to watch Ignis spread files out across the table and to hear him say, _We have decisions to make concerning your current position._

Noct is balancing on the back legs of his chair, flicking through his phone as he interjects agreements with everything Ignis is saying. Prompto’s not a hundred percent sure, but he’s got five years of friendship to rely on, and he thinks that Noct’s trying to make Prompto feel relaxed, like this isn’t a big deal. It’s helping a bit, but even Noct’s assurances don’t make Prompto’s hands stop sweating, or get rid of that pit in his stomach that feels like guilt and fear. This isn’t what their friendship is supposed to be like. Prompto’s not supposed to be causing problems, even if it’s by accident. Prompto’s supposed to be a—to be a diversion. To be something that’s not, like, the Citadel or the Wall or all those rules that mean Noct has way less freedom than Prompto. 

“Prompto,” Ignis says, and Prompto tries not to flinch. “We would appreciate it if you said that you understand that none of this is your fault.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Prompto stammers. His voice cracks like he’s going through puberty again, and his palms won’t stop sweating. He clears his throat and says, “I understand.”

When Ignis keeps waiting, really pointedly, Prompto tries again: “I understand it’s not my fault.”

“Good.” That’s Noct, leaning forward so his chair comes back down onto all four legs with a clatter. “‘Cause it’s not, okay? You’re a private citizen, and you shouldn’t have had your personal information released. It’s bullshit, and when—”

“Noct,” Ignis interrupts, “is correct when he says that this situation should never have come up. Now that it has, however, we will do what we can to correct the matter. There are a few options, some more extreme than others. You, of course, have the final say in what shall be done.”

“Extreme? I mean….” Prompto clears his throat again and wipes his palms on his trousers. Extreme doesn’t sound good, but the fact that there are options is nice, like there’s a chance all this can turn out okay. “It’s not really—I guess, like, can’t we just let it go? Eventually they’ll stop talking about it, right?”

He watches the way Ignis and Noct share a look, both of their faces grim. It’s enough to kill Prompto’s hope and leave it dead in the water. 

“In the best of circumstances,” Ignis says in a way Prompto can only think of as _delicate_ , “that might be the case. However, considering the heightened tensions in the city, particularly in light of the peace talks, it is unlikely to say the least.”

“Okay,” Prompto says. He looks over toward Noct, but Noct’s still looking at Ignis. “So, um, then what do you think would be the best?”

Ignis doesn’t brighten up, but he does look less strained as he gathers up the files in front of him, then fans them out. This is him in his element, Prompto thinks: laying out all the options, explaining the positives and negatives, positing what the future repercussions may be. This, too, is something Prompto’s only ever seen from the outside; this is something he’s used to watching from the couch, listening as Ignis and Noct go over policy changes and referendums and whatever else is on the week’s docket. 

“As I said,” Ignis says, spinning the first folder so that it is facing Prompto, “there are a few options.”

What Prompto quickly learns is that _a few options_ apparently means _there are two or three options that won’t end immediately in death and/or utter disaster and one option that will actually work_ —which really just means, _marriage is the only option_. 

Prompto’s been keeping a partial eye on the peace talks, mostly in the aspect of being a good bro, and he knows that there’s been a lot of speculation and talk about Noct and Lady Lunafreya getting married as part of the negotiation. He’s also seen his fair share of historical dramas, and he didn’t actually fail any of his history classes, so he knows that marriage was used a lot to solve political problems. He just didn’t know that the whole arranged marriage thing was still that common, and that it could be used for non-royal persons or problems. Person-problems like him. 

“Seriously?” he asks, feeling a little dizzy. He’s not sure if he even really means the question, but Ignis acts like he does.

“Indeed. Your citizenship may be legally irrefutable, but a marriage would legitimize your citizenship in the eyes of the more vocal critics, and in a way that legal documentation has failed to do. The added benefit of solidifying your position in Noct’s retinue should not be discounted, either.

“There is, of course, the issue of who would be your spouse, if that would affect your decision,” Ignis continues. “Noct is a sole heir, and the Amicitia family tends to practice primogenitary inheritance.”

Prompto understands what all of the words mean, individually and together, but he’s finding a sharp divide between understanding what words mean and understanding the point of the words. It doesn’t help that Ignis is looking at Prompto like he’s expecting something, because that—Ignis’s really obvious expectation—is just making Prompto feel blanker. “Uh, okay?”

“He’s saying that we can’t marry you,” Noct says helpfully. It really is helpful, if Prompto ignores the way it makes him choke on his own spit. Maybe it’s stupid of him, but even when Ignis had flipped open the fourth folder and had said, _Marriage is the best option at this time,_ Prompto hadn’t expected the marriage to, uh, involve anyone Prompto actually knows—and definitely not one of his friends. 

“And I am not constrained by any such issues,” Ignis continues smoothly, picking up from Noct like they’ve been practicing this. Maybe they have, or maybe this is how they talk at the Privy Council meetings. Maybe this is what they’ve been training for their entire life, and the only thing out of place in this discussion, at this table, is Prompto.

“I think,” he says, his voice sounding very small and kinda tin-like, “that I need some water.” He manages to stagger into the kitchen, only bumping into the island once. He even manages to fill up a glass of water without dropping the glass or spilling any of the water, so that’s saying something. He can’t manage to drink the water, though; his throat feels like it’s being squeezed shut, and he thinks he might choke if he does anything other than stare at the glass of water in his hands.

“Prompto, we understand that this is not something you would have expected, and neither Noct nor I wish to make you uncomfortable. This is simply one of the options.” Ignis has turned around his seat, and he’s watching Prompto. So’s Noct, and when Prompto meets Noct’s eyes, Noct shoves his chair back from the table, standing and moving to the far side of the island. Prompto doesn’t know if he’s grateful that Noct’s staying out of the kitchen, that he’s at least keeping the island between them.

“But you think—” His voice cracks again. He takes a tiny sip of water and coughs when it gets stuck in his throat. “You think this is the best option.”

“So does my dad,” Noct says, and okay. Wow. Prompto was not expecting that. “Prompto, I know this is really shitty for you, but it really is the best option. It’s a power play, okay? 

“Look, Ignis?” Noct motions toward Ignis. “They can’t take him away, right? He’s already got a seat on the Council, his uncle’s one of the highest ranked advisors, and they know my dad and me would throw a fit if anyone tried to get rid of him. He and Gladio, they’re here for good, okay? But you’re not. I mean,” Noct says quickly, like he’s scared Prompto’s gonna take it wrong, “they know they can try to get rid of you, but if you’re married to Ignis, they can’t.”

“It is also a way for the king to clarify his position on immigrants,” Ignis adds, “without the risk of pushing legislation that may not pass.”

This is a lot like the _sole heir_ and _primogenitary inheritance_ thing. Prompto gets what Noct and Ignis are saying, in a really abstract kind of way, but it doesn’t feel real. What does feel real is the sense of claustrophobia and the certainty that if he stays in the kitchen for much longer, he might start to cry. Maybe Noct can tell, because he sounds concerned when he says, “Prompto.”

“I gotta pee,” Prompto interrupts. He tries to set the glass on the edge of the sink and fails entirely, instead dropping the glass into the sink. It shatters, which shouldn’t be that surprising—or maybe it should be more surprising, because Prompto can’t do much more than stare at the glass shards and spilled water and think, _Of fucking course_.

“Hey,” Noct says from across the island. “Hey, Prompto—hey. Just go, it’s fine.”

Prompto hides in the bathroom for a long time—until someone knocks at the door. Prompto scrubs roughly at his eyes, and he tries to straighten his shoulders when he hears Ignis’s voice say from the other side of the door, “Prompto, I believe we should talk.”

x

“So,” he finishes telling his mom, “I, uh, guess I’ll be getting married soon?”

His mom’s been looking more troubled as Prompto’s been trying to explain the entire thing. The marriage thing. 

“Married,” his mom repeats after him, frowning at him.

“Um, yeah.” Prompto shrugs, then wonders if that looks too flippant. “Married. To Ignis? I don’t think you’ve, uh, met him yet, but he’s the one. The one who’s Noct’s advisor.”

“The tall one?”

“Um,” Prompto says again, waving his hand in an _Eh_ kind of way. “Sorta? Not the really tall one, but he’s tall. He’s, uh. He’s really smart, and he’s always put together. Kinda strict?”

His mom’s still frowning and she’s fiddling with a napkin, tearing it to pieces. Her side of kitchen table is covered in tiny pieces of white paper. Prompto’s hands are clammy from embarrassment and nerves and he’s already torn up his own napkin, then bunched the pieces together into a mangled ball. If his dad were here, he’d probably be sitting between the two of them; he’d probably be holding Prompto’s mom’s hand and probably have an arm slung over Prompto’s shoulders.

He’d probably be arguing, though, asking questions that Prompto doesn’t really have the answers for. Prompto’s probaby lucky that it’s just his mom home today, that he gets to try to explain this to her first—that she takes it in quietly, listening as Prompto stumbles his way through an issue Prompto barely understands himself.

“It’s not required, though,” his mom begins after she’s torn up most of her napkin. “It’s not—you’re legally a citizen, and that won’t change. This will just….” She trails off, looking at Prompto expectantly.

“It will, um, make things better? Just. Legitimate me, I guess? Just, y’know,” Prompto says with a wince, “adoption and immigration and stuff. It’ll just make it better? They said it was the best option, for all the—” He waves his hand toward the tv, then farther, toward the front door. There were still paparazzi outside when he got home from Noct’s; they’re probably still there now. 

His mom repeats again, “The best option. Alright. Is it—is it the safest? Not for them, Prompto. For you.”

And this is what Prompto was expecting, because his parents love him; he knows it, knows that they care about him. Maybe he doesn’t see them much—maybe they only get to eat dinner together a couple times a month, and maybe they mostly talk through texts—but they love him. They want the best for him, even when they can’t give it to him.

“Yeah,” he says, because his parents want the best for him, but so do his friends. “Y’know, Iggy? He’s really important. Like, really important. If I’m married to him, then I’m important, too.” 

It’d sounded right in his head, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he thinks, _Well, shit._ His mom takes a deep breath, leaving her torn up napkin abandoned as she reaches across the table toward Prompto. Prompto knows this, too—the deep breath, the hand-holding, the patient lecture about importance and self-worth and love—and he tries to head it off as much as he can, grabbing his mom’s hand and saying, “Mom, I know. I’m important, I know, just. Just. It’ll be good, okay? 

“Just. Y’know, it’s politics and stuff, right? And we’re not really….” He shrugs, squeezing his mom’s hand. “Noct said, um, that Ignis is really high up in the Citadel. He’s Noct’s advisor, right? And he’s already got a position on the Council, and his uncle’s important, too, like—important to the king. And so, just. I’ll be safe. It’ll keep me safe.”

His mom takes another deep breath, then lets it out in a long sigh. She’s squeezing Prompto’s hand back, and she smiles at him for a moment. It’s small and tight, almost more of a grimace, but still. 

“Okay,” she says; her voice sounds as small and tight as her smile looks. “If they can—if this is the best. If it’s the safest thing, then okay.”

(He had wondered, while Ignis had been driving him back home, if this is the kind of thing his mom has thought about—wondered if she ever had nightmares about things like this. He’d wondered if she had ever worried about someone taking him away, someone saying, _He’s not your real son._ )

“Okay,” she says again, and she squeezes his hand once more before she lets go and pushes her chair back. “Don’t tell your father yet. I’ll talk to him first, let him—” She pauses, then makes a face at Prompto. “Let him work through it, before he starts pestering you about it. Have they decided when—when it will be? The wedding?”

Prompto bites his lip hard, then says, “Um, pretty soon? Ignis said maybe toward the end of April.”

His mom is rising from her chair, but she stills at that for a few long seconds before she sinks back down into her chair. The troubled look is back on her face, and Prompto wonders if they’ll have go through it all again, if it will be tearing napkins and holding hands and trying to convince his mom that everything’s going to be okay—that everything’s going to be good. 

“That’s only a month and a half,” she says. “Less. Less than a month and a half. Prompto, that’s too fast.”

“No, it’s, um.” Prompto bites his lip again, then shrugs at his mom. “I guess, it’s just. The timing works? Ignis said it’s long enough that it doesn’t look like it’s really rushed, like it’s something we’ve been planning, just keeping quiet.

“And you know,” he tells his mom, “the peace treaty? It’s, um, it’s probably gonna happen, right? And they’re really sure that it’s gonna be. That Noct is gonna marry Lunafreya. It’s still kinda secret, but I guess the Citadel’s planning on the treaty and the wedding to happen in May, so this will just kinda blow over.”

“Prompto,” his mom says, in the kind of quiet, sad voice she used when Prompto was little, before he became friends with Noct and before he got that letter from Lunafreya—back when he was fat and awkward and never knew how to make anyone like him. Prompto looks down at their table, at the torn and crumpled napkins, because he doesn’t think he can take his mom looking at him the way Noct and Ignis had, when Prompto had finally managed to leave Noct’s bathroom. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “I mean, maybe—I guess this is really the best time to be able to just disappear in the background, right?”


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, there are five weeks before the wedding, and they’re five weeks spent in the kind of propaganda campaign that makes Prompto think of political dramas and stuff. Which, well. Yeah, he guesses he sorta is a political drama now, for all that he never meant to be. 

Over the first few days, Prompto watches as the pictures on the tv and the internet begin to shift. What were primarily pictures of Noct and Prompto become pictures of Noct and Ignis and Prompto, then pictures of just Ignis and Prompto. The shift is gradual enough that even while he’s noticing it, he doesn’t really get what’s happening until the end of the week, when it seems like all of the pictures—other than the ones of him bleeding in Civic Square—are of him and Ignis, without a single Noct in sight. 

“It’s just, uh,” Prompto stammers as he scrolls through another doink thread, “it seems kinda unbelievable? I just, uh. I just don’t really get how everyone changed gears so fast, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Ignis hums over the phone. “It’s not particularly surprising from either end. The Citadel has several paparazzi in its employ, or at least in its pockets. The hardest part was controlling the leak enough that it seemed beyond the Citadel’s control, and to ensure it moved in the direction we wished.”

“Then, what?” Prompto asks, feeling that same kind of fascinated apprehension and awe he gets whenever he watches good heist movies. “You just let ‘em go?”

Ignis chuckles, but it sounds strained somehow; maybe, if they in the same room, Prompto would see him frowning. “News agencies are like beasts. Once they’ve smelled blood, they’re relentless. The Citadel only needed to ensure they went for the right blood.”

Prompto clears his throat, then scrolls down to the next doink thread; this one, too, is speculating on Prompto and Ignis, on how close together—far apart—close together they stand. “Kinda making it sound like a blood sacrifice, Iggy.”

“Ah. My apologies,” Ignis says. “A bit of a bad metaphor.”

By the second week, the political commentators bitching about Prompto’s proximity to Noct are outnumbered by the talk show hosts talking about how often it seems like Prompto and Ignis are out and about together—like they’re completely unaware of the fact Noct’s been cropped out of half of the photos. And then there’s the internet. 

The internet being the internet, it picks up the Prompto and Ignis thing and runs with it. Prompto’s not trending on Tonberry yet, but it’s a near thing, and the doink thread with the most likes and reblogs is a thread that begins with a candid photo of Ignis and Prompto standing outside a subway station, looking at their phones. Ignis and Prompto are both wearing stripes in the photo: vertical pinstripes on Ignis’s dress shirt, horizontal bar stripes on Prompto’s t-shirt. The following doink thread is a feverish speculation on the symbolism of the stripes and the way Prompto’s leaning on a safety rail and how Ignis is turned halfway toward Prompto. It’s the kind of stuff Prompto’s used to seeing in fan forums, about characters—but not in real life, and not about him.

If he divorces himself from what he can remember of each photograph, he can kinda get behind the interpretation. Not, like, totally, but he can see some of what the internet must see. There are a lot of pictures of Prompto and Ignis together, from all around Insomnia, and they’re the kind of candids that show up in magazines and stuff, like the photos he sees of celeb couples. Not blatant stuff, ‘cause no shit, Prompto and Iggy are just friends, but y’know—things like Prompto grabbing Ignis’s arm, or Ignis holding out a bag to Prompto, or whatever. It looks _domestic_.

“That’s kinda the point,” Noct says when Prompto brings it up. They’re eating lunch on the university campus; when they’re done, Noct has to go to an astronomy class, and Prompto is scheduled to meet Ignis in the plaza near the university station. 

The plan, from what Prompto understands it, involves Ignis and Prompto visiting a handful of apartments for rent around the midway point between the Citadel and the university. The paparazzi have already been tipped off, and the realtor taking them around has heavy debts. Everything about the viewings will be up on the internet by tonight, and Prompto’s pretty sure he knows what the blog sites will say: _One bedroom apartment_ , and _More than friends?_

Ignis will ask Prompto what he thinks in each apartment: _Do you like the bathroom?_ or _What do you think of the windows?_ Prompto will give his opinions: _The closet seems kinda small_ or _Uh, I think carpet’s a no._ Afterward, the realtor will tell whoever asks that Ignis and Prompto seemed comfortable together, that they teased each other, that they asked about the neighbors. It will be domestic.

“I know,” Prompto tells Noct, because yeah, he’s figured out how this is working. And it’s working well, it’s just. It’s just weird, like there’s a filter laid over his and Ignis’s lives, changing what the public sees. “It’s just kinda….”

Noct steals another fry off Prompto’s plate, and Prompto sighs, shoving the plate closer to Noct. He’ll probably eat with Ignis tonight—nothing fancy, nothing that feels forced; just a quick stop in a local place, maybe something in the neighborhood where they’re apartment hunting. Add some verisimilitude to the whole event, like they really do care about the neighborhood. 

“Hey,” Noct says, leaning across the cafeteria table to bump Prompto’s arm. “They’re planning on moving you into the Citadel this weekend.” 

“I know,” Prompto says, because he knows this, too. It’s another event marked in the calendar leading up to the wedding: photos together, apartment hunting, moving in together—all these milestones that probably every couple goes through, only set at the wrong angle. It looks good, though. Put on the filter, and it looks like Ignis and Prompto are just like every other couple. 

Just like every other couple, as though every other couple moves into the Citadel; as though every other couple has representatives who announce their quiet engagement; as though every other couple has the king mention offhandedly how long they have been together and how happy he is that they’ve found happiness together. As though every other couple is as carefully put together as Prompto and Ignis. 

As though every other couple spends the weeks before their wedding working through the politics of their marriage, through the rules of conduct and the expectations of their union; as though every other couple listens to the Citadel lawyers explain, _There can be no annulment and no divorce._ As though every other couple is told, _At least until the political climate has calmed down, you can’t—_

“Okay,” Prompto says again and again, as the third and fourth and fifth weeks go by, as the Citadel writes the script Prompto will have to follow until someone bigger than him and more powerful than him decides that it’s been enough. “I understand.” 

x

“Prompto,” Ignis says when Prompto opens his door. Prompto’s spent more time with Ignis in the past few weeks than he had over the last five years combined, and he thinks he’s getting better at reading Ignis. He’s not as good at it as Noct—probably won’t ever be as good at it as Noct—but he’s definitely good enough to catch the way Ignis shifts his weight and taps his fingers against his thighs. 

“Iggy,” Prompto replies, opening the door wider. The nerves that have been living in his stomach since the engagement began are beginning to make themselves known again, like they sat up and took notice of Ignis’s distress. “Um, is everything okay?”

Ignis hesitates, which isn’t a good sign, especially since the wedding is tomorrow. Prompto swallows hard, then takes a step back out of the doorway, waving his hand in an awkward invitation. Ignis takes it, brushing past Prompto and into the room. There aren’t many places to sit, just the bed—still rumpled from Prompto’s restless nap after the latest round of legal paperwork—and two chairs, both of which have clothes hanging over their backs. Prompto shuts the door, then rushes past Ignis, grabbing up the clothes and tossing them onto the bed as he says, “You, uh, you wanna sit?”

“That would probably be for the best. Prompto.” When Prompto turns from the bed, Ignis is standing behind one of the chairs and is nodding toward the second as he says, “If you would sit as well, please.”

He does, scooting the chair around so that he’s facing Ignis’s chair. Ignis takes his time in sitting, undoing the lowest button of his jacket and tugging up the legs of his trousers before he actually plunks his ass in the chair. Prompto knows it’s something he’s seen Ignis do hundreds of time, or maybe even thousands, but it strikes him as something new and foreign. So many things seem new and foreign, like this world of the Citadel and politics was a pop-up book that turned into actual stone and flesh overnight. Prompto’s not from this world where there’re rules for dress and how to sit and when you can drink champagne and shit, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to learn to live inside it. What were they thinking? What was he thinking?

“Prompto,” Ignis says once he’s sitting at last, his legs crossed and his hands resting on his knee. His first finger still tapping, a _beat-beat-beat_ on his kneecap, and Prompto stares at that rather than Ignis’s face. “I believe it’s necessary to discuss some of the expectations we will face tomorrow.”

Prompto opens his mouth, then closes it again. It’s easier just to nod. Ignis continues:

“As you have no doubt become aware, political weddings—particularly those linked to the Crown—are highly regulated. There are a great many rules, both official and unofficial, to ensure that the marriages produce the desired results.” Ignis pauses; his finger loses its rhythm: _beat-pause-pause-beatbeat-beat_. “That includes the conduct between the spouses.”

“No divorce,” Prompto manages to force out. His throat is feeling tight and dry, which is stupid, because his hands feel like they’re about to drip with sweat. “No, uh, stepping out. Not publically.” 

“Yes.” Ignis clears his throat, and the pace of his tapping picks up. His words pick up, too, coming out faster. “It also includes the wedding night.”

Prompto feels himself begin to flush, and it seems like his bed is bizarrely growing larger, like a kujata that’s just bulldozed its way into the room, huge and angry and really impossible to ignore. “Um,” he says stupidly.

“We will be expected to consummate the marriage.” Ignis’s finger isn’t tapping at all anymore: his hands are clenched into fists, his left hand gripping his knee, his right hand gripping his left hand. Prompto can see his knuckles turning white. “There will be witnesses.”

As soon as Ignis says it, Prompto feels like an absolute idiot for not even thinking about it before now. He’s seen all those costume dramas, and most of them were about marriages and stuff, and like, maybe they didn’t all talk about the marriages being consummated, but a lot of them did. Like, Prompto’s pretty sure he could tick off ten or twenty movies and series, right now, that had couples having to consummate their marriages, and probably half of those had witnesses, too. He’s seen this before, he just—he just thought about it as part of a story, not part of his friends’ lives. 

“H-how many?” 

Ignis looks a little surprised at Prompto’s question, but he doesn’t stumble when he answers, “Two. Gladio’s father will be one, and the second will be another member of the Privy Council. They are—” Ignis seems to hesitate, just long enough for Prompto to notice but not long enough for him to figure out why. “They are sympathetic to the situation, and they are discreet.”

“Oh.” Prompto clears his throat, then has to clear it again. “Do we, uh, what do we have to….”

“Penetration is safest, as it’s least likely to be contested in court.” Ignis smiles then, an awkward sort of grin as he adds, “Whether the legal one or the king’s.”

If it’s a joke, Prompto doesn’t get it. Ignis seems to sober really fast, and he reaches up, fixing his glasses. It’s probably another tell that Ignis is nervous; Noct would know, if he were here.

“It’d be best for you to be the penetrator. The, uh, top, if you will.” Ignis nudges his glasses up his nose again, then clasps his hands in his lap. “Prompto, have you had any sexual experience?”

“Um,” Prompto stammers clumsily, “does that—I mean, is it really—”

Ignis’s interruption is probably a kindness. Maybe. Prompto’s not really sure, because it kinda feels like a kindness would’ve been knowing this weeks ago, when Ignis and Noct first told him, _Hey, you should probably get married._ And maybe that’s why Ignis didn’t say anything until now, because he knew Prompto would’ve bowed the fuck out. But hey, what’s a little public consummation between friends? Just another kindness, just like the way Ignis is interrupting him:

“I need to know if you will be able to maintain an erection.”

And wow, okay. That’s just gonna be put out there, then. Okay. Prompto covers his face with his hands, because he’s pretty sure he’s about the same red as a tomato. “I dunno, I’ve never—dude, I’m a virgin.”

“Ah,” he hears Ignis say. When Prompto feels brave enough to uncover his face, Ignis is staring down at his hands. His finger is tapping again, _beat-beat-beat_ , and he’s still staring down at his hands when he asks Prompto, “If I may be so bold?”

“Um,” Prompto says, and that’s about it. He’s pretty sure he knows what Ignis is trying to get at, but considering his recent track record of being totally blind-sided, he’s not gonna put any money on that bet. So yeah. Um. It’s a pretty neutral answer. What the fuck.

Ignis stands then, pulling off his glasses and tucking them away inside his suit jacket. It feels unreal, like this—the room, the furniture, Prompto and Ignis—has become the set of a sitcom. Or a porno. Maybe a porno is a better example, because Ignis has moved close enough that he can bump his knee against Prompto’s as he says, “If you would be so kind as to spread your legs.”

The words sound weirdly formal, even coming from Ignis, and it’s the weirdness of the situation, the unreality of it, that has Prompto spreading his legs as he gapes up at Ignis. He hasn’t really seen Ignis without glasses before, other than scattered moments when Ignis was cleaning his lenses; Ignis’s face looks different without his glasses, strange and almost empty. 

“My thanks,” Ignis murmurs, and Prompto doesn’t know if Ignis is trying to, like, be sexy or anything, but the quietness of his voice makes something clench tight in Prompto’s belly, and the smooth way he sinks to his knees in between Prompto’s legs makes that clenched feeling turn over in a somersault. 

When he’s on his knees, Ignis reaches forward to tug at Prompto’s hips. Prompto scoots forward in the chair, until his butt is just barely on the seat. It feels like there’s something screaming inside him, in his belly and his chest and his throat and his head, about how freaking close his crotch is to Ignis in general, and to Ignis’s face specifically. Like, really close. Close enough that when Ignis lowers his chin, Prompto imagines that he can feel the heat of Ignis’s face through his trousers.

“Will you get hard?” Ignis asks, sounding as calm as if he were asking if Prompto wanted to stay for dinner or if Prompto would be working that weekend or if Prompto had plans for summer vacation. _More broccoli? Are you working an extra shift? Will you get hard when I suck your cock?_ Shit. Fuck. They’re gonna—fuck. 

He watches helplessly as Ignis undoes his trousers: the _fwsh_ of his belt and the _clink_ of its buckle, the _thm_ of his button and the _tzz_ of his zipper. Ignis’s fingers are long, and they’re broader than Prompto’s; they look as smooth and graceful as the rest of Ignis, like they’re practiced at this. Like Ignis is practiced at this. Like maybe—

Prompto’s half-hard already, but he’s been half-hard since Ignis had said, _It also includes the wedding night_. It feels like a confused boner, the kind that’s part arousal and part fear and a lot of shame; the kind that’s all desperation to be hard and to not be hard, to just—ugh, to just not. To just. 

Ignis’s hand feels hot and dry and electric on Prompto’s cock, like the jolting pleasure-pain when Prompto’s shocked himself on doorknobs and stuff. Prompto gasps, feeling his belly suck in with surprise. Ignis’s touch is real—like, actually real—and it feels at odds with the just-a-movie-set memo his brain has been throwing up. He watches as Ignis strokes his hand up his cock, then down; Ignis’s hand is dry, and Prompto’s dick is dry, and it’s a little rough and a lot uncomfortable. His dick’s still trying to make a valiant effort, though, trying to get hard like there isn’t a freaking war going on in the rest of Prompto’s body.

“If it’s easier,” Ignis says, and Prompto watches as he lets go of Prompto’s dick so he can lick the palm of his hand, “you can close your eyes.”

“That’s—” Prompto’s voice cracks, then gives out entirely when Ignis wraps his wet palm around Prompto’s dick again. It feels better, feels _good_ , and Prompto’s stomach is somersaulting like it wants to take up gymnastics. Shit. “That, uh, seems kinda asshole-ish?”

“Does it?” Ignis asks, sounding surprised and curious—then it’s Prompto’s turn to be surprised, because Ignis is leaning forward and sucking the head of Prompto’s dick into his mouth.

“Fffuck,” Prompto spits out, clenching his hands on the cushion of his seat. Ignis’s mouth is wet and hot—so fucking hot—and god, he can feel Ignis’s tongue, that’s Ignis’s freaking tongue, pushing up on the underside of Prompto’s dick, right at the ridge of his dick’s head. It’s like—shit, Prompto’s read porn, like the shitty kinds and the not shitty kinds, and okay. He gets it now, that whole, uh, ‘like a magnet in his cock’ kind of thing, because it feels like his dick’s suddenly got a magnet in it or something. His dick goes hard the rest of the way so fast that it hurts, and Prompto’s feeling dizzy with it, like all the blood was dragged out of his head and into his dick. Like, by a magnet. So. Magnet cock.

Ignis sucks, and yeah, okay, sucking is awesome. It’s still just the head of his dick that’s in Ignis’s mouth, but considering how close Prompto feels like he is to coming, that’s probably for the best. Ignis sucks again, his tongue still pressing up against the underside of Prompto’s dick, and Prompto makes an awful, squawking kind of sound.

“Iggy, I’m gonna—Shit, I think I’m gonna—”

Ignis pulls back, still sucking, and the head of Prompto’s dick comes free from Ignis’s mouth with a wet _pop_. Prompto clutches harder at the seat cushion, and he comes as Ignis twists his hand around his dick. Prompto’s hips jerk as he comes, and he barely manages to keep his eyes cracked open, just enough to watch as Ignis cups a hand at the head of Prompto’s dick, catching the spurts of come.

Here’s something Prompto didn’t expect:

He feels like crap after he comes. It’s not immediate, but it starts up as the afterglow begins to fade. Ignis has moved to stand by the bedside table, and he’s wiping his hands clean with a tissue. His hands probably smell like Prompto’s come, and the thought of that—the way Prompto’s stupid, fucking dick had spurted all over Ignis’s hands—makes Prompto feel sick. 

“Prompto?” Ignis asks, and Prompto looks back down at his lap, at his dick lying limp and wet and ugly on his thigh. His trousers are still gaping open; he fumbles with them, trying to close them up with his stupid, numb fingers. 

“Tired.” His voice sounds like a croak, so he clears his throat and says it again: “Just tired. I didn’t, uh. Long day.”

“Of course,” Ignis replies. When Ignis turns, Prompto can’t stop himself from looking at Ignis’s hands, then lower, at Ignis’s trousers. Ignis isn’t hard. His trousers are lying neat and flat over his crotch, as neat and impeccable as if Ignis is coming out of a meeting, not wiping his hands after blowing someone. 

“Sorry,” Prompto says, feeling sicker with embarrassment. He’s managed to get his trousers closed, but there’s a wet spot where his dick was resting, and he doesn’t know how to hide it without just making it more obvious—and that makes him feel stupid, too, because Ignis already knows. It was Ignis who’d been sucking Prompto’s dick into his mouth, and it was Ignis who’d stroked Prompto through the aftershocks, until Prompto’s dick had been too sensitive. It was Ignis who’d laid Prompto’s dick down, the head still shiny from spit and the last few dribbles of come. “Sorry,” Prompto says again, “I’m just tired.”

“It’s fine, Prompto,” Ignis says, and he leaves while Prompto’s still sitting in the chair, his hands bunched in his lap and his legs feeling too shaky to stand.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s hard for Prompto to focus on the wedding, because there’s this sense of unreality to it, like it’s happening to someone else. He feels guilty about that, because it’s his wedding and he should be paying attention—but it’s not like he’s gonna have kids, so there’s not really anyone he’ll ever have to tell. Or at least, he probably won’t be having kids, unless the Citadel decides that he and Ignis should adopt for, what, maybe a public relations campaign? Maybe really sell it home that they’re a happy family in a couple years? And hell, he doesn’t know if Ignis wants kids; he doesn’t even know if _he_ wants kids. 

Then he spots Gladio’s dad down the hallway, talking to someone Prompto doesn’t know, and Prompto thinks, _He’s gonna be watching me have sex with Ignis in a couple hours._

And that’s how it goes, all strange lurches of the wedding moving too quickly, then these odd, time-stalling moments of realizations: _Oh, now Iggy’s my husband_ and _I wonder who the second person will be_ and _Does Noct know me and Ignis hafta fuck?_

Ignis’s hand feels cool and a little clammy in Prompto’s, and Prompto’s pretty sure that his own hand is sweating like crazy. He wants to let go so he can wipe his hand on his trousers, maybe apologize for it, but there are photographers every time he turns around, taking pictures of him and Ignis, and of his parents and Ignis’s parents; of Noct and Gladio and—during a brief appearance that makes Prompto’s hands sweat even worse—even the king. 

But he makes it through—through speaking to the judge, and signing the papers, and taking the pictures, and even forcing down a few bites of a lunch that feels dry and heavy in his stomach. 

Then Ignis is pulling Prompto away from everyone else and is saying quietly, “We should be going now.”

“Now?” Prompto parrots back. It’s still light out—it’s barely the evening—and it seems impossible that it’s already time. “Isn’t it early? I mean, it’s still—” He gestures toward the window, to the daylight that’s still streaming in; the gesture takes in the rest of the room, and the few dozen guests that have been collected by the Citadel. For the Citadel. 

“Yes, well.” Ignis hesitates, then looks kinda like he’s biting the bullet when he plows ahead: “The witnesses will need to give reports back to the Council. It’d be easier to take care of this sooner rather than later.”

“Right.” Prompto clears his throat, then says with only a little difficulty, “Lead the way, then?”

The way, it turns out, is to Ignis’s room. Prompto’s never been there before, but Ignis explains that he thought it’d be easiest and most comfortable. “And practical,” he adds as he leads Prompto down another long hallway, “for everyone involved.”

Ignis’s room, when they arrive, seems pretty much the same as the room where Prompto’s been staying for the past few weeks. There’s a bed and a nightstand, and sliding doors that are probably hiding a closet; there’s a window, which already has its curtains drawn. There’s also a screen: big and kinda ornate, with this twisty, metal frame and a fabric just thick enough that Prompto can’t see through it—though that’s probably helped by how dark it is on the other side of the screen. Like shadow puppets, maybe, with the audience back there, and with Ignis and Prompto playing the parts of the puppets. 

Before Prompto can really get latched onto the idea, though, Ignis is touching Prompto’s shoulder, just a tiny bump toward the left, and he’s saying, “There’s a bathroom through the door, if you’d care to freshen up.”

Prompto stumbles through the door obediently and gratefully, locking the bathroom door behind him. He doesn’t even bother pretending he’s not hiding in here. He knows he can’t stay in here, but for now—for right now—he takes the opportunity to bend over, his hands on his knees and his head ducked low, and just _breathe_. God, this day has been insane; and god, he’s pretty sure it’s gonna keep being crazy.

Eventually, though, he makes himself leave the bathroom, because it can’t be fair to leave Ignis out there, waiting with the screen and whoever’s behind it. And the screen—as soon as Prompto leaves the bathroom, he finds himself staring at it, at the surprisingly pretty metal flowers in the corners, and the way the fabric is sorta ruffled at the top; the realization comes to him suddenly, that this—it’s a thing. This screen is probably a wedding thing, probably pulled outta storage whenever the Citadel has a wedding. It’s probably used for all the public consummations, like the king and the queen years ago, and Noct and Lunafreya next month, and Ignis and Prompto now, inbetween. 

“Prompto,” Ignis says, and Prompto tears his attention away from the screen. Ignis is sitting in the middle of his bed, on top of the bedspread. He’s already naked, even his glasses put away, and Prompto wonders if maybe he’s holding them up—maybe he should be naked, too, maybe he should’ve come out of the bathroom naked. Should he get this ball rolling? 

“Should we, um—” Prompto motions at the bed, stammering, “The bedspread?” 

Ignis glances down at the bedspread, then over toward the screen. When he looks back toward Prompto, he’s got this deprecating kind of smile on his face. “I’m afraid that would quite defeat the purpose.”

Prompto feels himself begin to blush, and it takes pretty much all of his will-power not to look at the screen, too. God, Gladio’s _dad_ is on the other side of it, and someone else, too—and Prompto’s hoping that Ignis didn’t say who just because Prompto doesn’t know them, and not because Prompto would die of embarrassment if he does. 

“Prompto,” Ignis says again, and Prompto begins to strip off his clothes, fumbling when he tries to undo the buttons of his shirt too fast. There’s no chair to lay his clothes over, and he tries to stamp down on the thought that the chair—the _chairs_ —are probably, definitely behind the screen. He settles for kicking his clothes out of the way before he sidles closer to the bed.

“Is there, uh,” he begins to ask, but before he can figure out how to say _lube_ or _condoms_ without biting his own tongue, Ignis is holding up a bottle. “Yeah,” Prompto says, “uh, that. Okay.”

The bed doesn’t squeak when he climbs onto it. The pros of money, he guesses—bed frames that don’t scream whenever you move, and mattresses firm enough that Ignis isn’t jostled when Prompto’s clambering onto the bed. And Ignis—he’s not looking cool, exactly, but he’s looking about as calm as he had earlier, during the wedding. The only sign of embarrassment that Prompto can even pick up is the way Ignis isn’t looking at his face and the way Ignis’s face is beginning to turn red. That’s about the same, though, because Prompto can barely stand to look at Ignis’s face, and he can feel his skin burn with his blush. This is really—it’s actually happening.

Ignis is moving on the bed, grabbing a pillow and pulling it behind himself, then lying down—and oh, yeah, okay. He’s lifting his ass off the mattress and yanking the pillow beneath him, so that his ass is on it, and it—it, uh, it puts Ignis’s ass on display. Not, like, perfect display, but definitely—definitely display. Enough display that Prompto can see the pucker of Ignis’s ass. When Ignis holds out the bottle of lube, Prompto takes it, clutching it tight to try to keep from dropping it.

“Um, condom?” he asks, grateful when his voice doesn’t squeak. He looks up toward Ignis’s face, just long enough to see Ignis make a strange, contorted expression. 

“That’s not—ah, it’s unnecessary for this. This time.” 

Prompto can’t keep himself from reflexively looking over at the screen, because _this time_ means—he wonders if they’re just gonna watch from behind the screen, or if afterwards they’ll have to check. Then he thinks of what it’ll look like, his come dripping out of Ignis’s ass. Prompto’s a healthy young man, and he’s maybe looked up ‘creampie’ on porn websites more than a few times, which is to say, he’s got a good idea of what that’ll look like, how it’s gonna drip out of Ignis. His stomach rolls over queasily, and he can feel his dick getting hard.

“Okay,” he says, because he doesn’t really know what else he can say. He flips the lid of the lube and squirts a fair amount onto his fingers, focusing on it like it’s the only thing in the room that matters.

The lube is cold on his fingers. He rubs his fingertips and thumb together, feeling the lube start to slide down into his palm. It feels—well, strange, obviously. It’s wet and slippery, and it clings to his hand, stretching into threads when he spreads his fingers. It should be disgusting, because it’s like a short step away from slimy, but it’s like there’s this part of Prompto’s brain, way in the back, that is chanting, _Lube means sex, lube means sex._ It’s the same part of his brain that’d perked up last night, when Ignis had sat in Prompto’s room and had said, _It also includes the wedding night._ The lube on his fingers is growing warm, though, so Prompto tries to ignore that back part of his brain, scooting over the bedspread on his knees. 

“I don’t—I shouldn’t need much.” Ignis sounds more like he’s asking, rather than telling. 

Prompto doesn’t trust himself with answering aloud, because he’s sure his voice will crack, then probably fail him altogether. He nods instead, and watches as Ignis leans further back, spreading his legs.

Ignis’s skin is hot, and it feels soft beneath Prompto’s fingers; there’s hair, mostly along the cleft of Ignis’s ass, and it feels crinkly, almost prickly compared to the softness of Ignis’s skin. It seems weird—wrong, maybe—to just shove his finger up Ignis’s ass, even if that’s what he’s supposed to do, and more beside; he’s gonna have to shove his cock up Ignis’s ass, while people watch, and—

“Prompto,” Ignis says, and Prompto drags his fingers down a little farther, along the delicate, tight skin between Ignis’s balls and Ignis’s hole. Ignis breathes in sharpish, and Prompto can see the insides of Ignis’s thighs quiver. That’s good, maybe, so he does it again—drags his fingers up to the base of Ignis’s balls, then back down toward Ignis’s hole. 

Then he bites the damn bullet, and he smears the lube on his fingertips across the pucker of Ignis’s hole. He doesn’t know if it’s actually hotter than the rest of Ignis, but it feels that way—this tightly furled knot, hot and barely yielding under Prompto’s fingers. He switches to his thumb, and he traces the pad of his thumb around Ignis’s pucker, again and again, until it starts to feel softer, like it—like Ignis—is beginning to relax. 

He adds more lube, a splurting squeeze of it right onto Ignis’s pucker; at another time, he would’ve laughed at it; with someone else, he might’ve made a joke about queefing or whatever. Instead, he swallows, then presses the pad of his thumb over Ignis’s hole, where the new squeeze of lube is quickly warming. He holds his thumb there, pressing until Ignis’s pucker gives and lets Prompto’s thumb sink in.

The pucker of Ignis’s ass is tight around Prompto’s thumb; Prompto tries moving his thumb, just kinda crooking it back and forth just inside Ignis’s ass. Ignis is quiet, just breathing without much sound at all, and Prompto sneaks a glance up. Ignis’s forehead is furrowed, in concentration or pain or maybe impatience. Prompto’s not sure—it’s not like he’s got experience to base this on, other than over-the-top porn. Maybe this is just how Ignis looks when he’s—when someone’s got a thumb up his ass?

“Is it—” Prompto’s voice breaks, like he knew it would. He swallows and tries again. “Is it, uh, okay? So far?”

He sees the moment Ignis realizes Prompto’s watching him. It’s like watching an actor, or something—not a porn actor, but a real actor: Ignis’s face goes smooth, the furrow on his brow fading and the tightness of his mouth loosening. Even his body changes. He shifts on the pillow, tilting his ass up higher, and he reaches down, grabbing his legs and pulling them up higher, and that—all of that of his body, the way he’s spreading himself open—maybe kinda _is_ like a porno.

“It’s fine, Prompto,” Ignis says, and his voice sounds normal, like this isn’t a big deal. He clears his throat, and Prompto sees the way he glances to the side, toward the screen, before he says, “You can go on.”

“Right.” Prompto feels a little breathless as he says it, but that’s okay. It’s fine. If Ignis says it’s fine, then it’s fine. He bends his thumb in Ignis’s hole again, pressing at the wall just inside, then tries to move his thumb in a circle a couple times before he slowly pulls it out.

Ignis’s pucker closes up again, but it’s looser and pinker than before, glistening from the lube. Prompto feels his cock throb.

When he pushes a finger into Ignis’s hole, it’s even better; his finger stretches further into Ignis’s ass, and he can feel Ignis grip tight and hot around him. With the lube, the slide is slick and smooth. Prompto pulls his finger most of the way out, until it’s the just tip inside, then pushes it back in. It’s going to be his dick soon, pushing into _smooth-wet-heat_ , and Prompto can feel himself getting harder thinking of it, about how it’s going to feel.

He adds a finger, pushes it in; Ignis makes a low grunt when Prompto’s knuckles are shoved up against Ignis’s ass, and Prompto looks up at him again. Ignis is grimacing, and when Prompto says his name, Ignis glances down toward Prompto. He lets go of one of his legs and covers his eyes. “Wait—a moment, Prompto—”

Prompto probably pulls his fingers out too fast, because Ignis exhales noisily, his hand clamping against his eyes tighter. “Shit,” Prompto curses, “I didn’t— Sorry, are you—”

“I’m fine,” Ignis says, sounding pretty far from fine. “Fine,” he repeats when Prompto makes a disbelieving sound. “It’s just that it will be easier if I’m—ah—like this.”

Prompto shifts back on his knees when Ignis motions at him, giving Ignis room to squirm free and roll over onto his stomach. He’s managed to drag the pillow beneath his hips, and it pushes his ass up. It’s easy for Prompto to edge back in, to spread his hand over one of Ignis’s asscheeks; it’s even easier to see Ignis’s pucker like this, glistening and pink and just barely beginning to gape.

“I don’t need much,” Ignis says again, so Prompto thrusts two fingers back in, stretching them until Ignis mutters, muffled by how his face is pressed against the bed, “It’s enough.” Prompto adds a third finger, and Ignis’s muffled voice says again, “Prompto, it’s enough.” 

“Okay,” Prompto says, and he has to take a moment, has to take a couple breaths, before he can squirt some lube in his hand and spread it on his dick. Another moment and a couple more breaths, and then he rests a hand on Ignis’s ass, pushing on one cheek so he can see Ignis’s hole, so he can nudge himself until he’s got the head of his dick resting against Ignis’s hole.

He pushes, and pushes, and Ignis’s pucker gives under Prompto’s dick, just like it had under Prompto’s thumb. He has to stop when he’s got the head in, has to try to breathe. Ignis is tight—tight and hot and quivering around Prompto’s dick—and between the slick heat of Ignis’s hole and his own nerves, Prompto feels like he’s teetering on the edge of an unexpected cliff. 

“H-hold on,” he gasps, then sucks in another breath. Ignis’s rim is red and stretched around Prompto’s dick. When Prompto jerks his hips forward, Ignis’s rim moves, too, clutching at Prompto’s dick. Prompto thrusts in a little more, and watches Ignis’s rim stretch further. “Shit.”

Prompto feels like he’s breathless, like the same tight grip around his dick is around his lungs, squeezing all the air out of him. Ignis sounds like he’s just as breathless, making these punched-out kind of moans. Prompto shoves forward the last bit, can’t keep himself from wanting _more_ and _deeper_ , wanting as much as he can get.

He’s gonna come, knows he’s gonna come the same way he knew he was gonna come the night before, when Ignis’s mouth had been hot and wet around the head of Prompto’s dick. 

“Shit,” he says again, gasping it as he bends over Ignis. His hands are moving restlessly, out of his control—clutching at Ignis’s hips, then sliding along Ignis’s skin, like they’re searching for something. God, he feels like he’s searching for something, reaching for— for—

He tries to pull out and only manages an inch or so before he’s pushing back in. It’s more grinding than thrusting, except it’s not even really that—it’s just humping. And fuck, he can’t stop, can’t stop this stupid, frantic need welling up in his stomach. He’s like a fucking teenager, humping a damn pillow—pushing and _pushing_ , trying to get himself deeper into Ignis, his fingers digging into Ignis’s hips as he tries to drag Ignis back, drag him closer. 

Prompto doesn’t say anything when he comes; he barely manages a garbled moan. Orgasm comes with a few long moments of mindless pleasure, though, this tiny stretch of time where Prompto forgets the wedding and uncertainty and the screen and even Ignis. Then Ignis moves beneath him, taking an uncomfortable sounding huff of breath, and Prompto feels his awareness come flooding in again.

“Shit,” he mumbles, and he lets go of Ignis’s hips. He’s been holding on too tight, tight enough that his knuckles are aching, and his hand feels tingly when he tries to reach around Ignis, to try to offer a—a handjob, or something, anything. He’s barely touched Ignis’s dick—dangling between Ignis’s legs, barely even hard—when Ignis pushes Prompto’s hand away.

“Don’t,” Ignis tells him, his voice still muffled by the bed under his cheek. “It’s fine.”

It stings, just like it had yesterday, and Prompto says, just like he had yesterday, “Sorry.”

Ignis turns his head a bit, and the shift—tiny as it is—is enough to move the rest of his body; Prompto is aware all over again of how his softening dick is still shoved up Ignis’s ass. It feels too intimate, and made all the worse by his equal awareness of the screen and of their audience. Made all the worse by the way Ignis asks quietly, like he doesn’t want whoever’s on the other side of the screen to hear, “Why are you sorry? It’s hardly your fault.”

x

After the wedding, they fade from the public eye just like the Citadel had said they would. There’s nothing much to keep the internet’s interest: no honeymoon, justified by the fast approaching royal wedding, and no public dates, justified by Ignis and Prompto’s busy schedules at the Citadel and the university, respectively. What there is has been carefully, meticulously crafted to be mundane, even boring: Ignis and Prompto moving into one of the apartments they’d viewed a few weeks before, then moving on with their lives like nothing has changed. 

There are still photos, of course, popping up on the internet and morning shows, but they’re getting replaced by photos of Noct and Lunafreya. The Tonberry threads that were analyzing shit like Prompto’s shoelaces are now zeroing in on Lunafreya’s recent interviews and hints about her wedding dress. Even the talk shows are toning it down, commentators dropping the _But should we be concerned about the Prince’s companions?_ angle after some carefully chosen words from the Citadel.

“See?” Prompto asks his mom toward the end of the first week. She’s already gone from Insomnia again, running back-to-back hauling trips to make up for the leave she took for the wedding. She didn’t get a chance to see the apartment, but Prompto’s texted a few pictures, even told her about the neighbors he thinks might have dogs. 

“It’s working,” his mom says, “but I still—” She sighs, her voice buzzing over the staticky call. “I just want you to be happy. Safe and happy.”

“I am,” Prompto tells her. “Mom, it’s really—it’s really nice, I promise.”

And it is nice, even nicer than Prompto had expected. The apartment’s nice, and the Citadel’s attentive, and the cooldown in the press has lifted a weight Prompto hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. It’s all nice—it’s just that it’s a bit lonely, too.

The apartment is as quiet as Prompto’s house, and almost as empty. Ignis is almost always gone by the time Prompto wakes up, and he usually gets back after Prompto’s already gone to bed. It’s fine, though—Ignis is busy, way busier than Prompto, and at least he’s always there at night. There’s still someone else in the apartment, someone else sleeping on the other side of the bed. 

It’s just different. Prompto’s never lived with anyone other than his parents, and he doesn’t think Ignis has, either. It’ll take time for them to get used to everything, but it’ll be fine. Couples start living together every day, and people become roommates with strangers all the time. Prompto and Ignis are already friends, so they’ve already got a step up on the situation. It’s nice. It’ll be fine.

x

On a Thursday in May, a different type of rock is thrown at Prompto’s head.

His afternoon class is cancelled and his phone is dead, so he swings by the Citadel, thinking of maybe seeing if Ignis or Gladio want to get lunch with him. It’s not something he gets to do very much, the whole lunch-with-friends-who-aren’t-Noct, and it’s nice, when he can actually finagle it. He thinks it’d be nice, too, to spend time with Ignis outside the apartment. 

And like, even if Ignis and Gladio already ate, Ignis definitely has a phone charger in his office, and he’ll probably let Prompto use it, no questions asked. It’s an all-around positive: Prompto might get company for lunch, and even if he doesn’t, he’ll at least get to juice up his phone enough to turn it back on. Maybe he’ll even be able to stick around until Ignis is done, and hitch a ride back home. To the apartment. _Their_ apartment.

When Prompto gets there, though, Ignis’s office door is shut and Prompto can hear voices inside. He hesitates at the door, wondering if he should knock or not. It’s barely past noon, so it’s not completely crazy for him to knock and ask Ignis if he wants to eat lunch—but Ignis is busy. Ignis is always busy, leaving early and coming home late, and he probably works through his lunches, or at least has lunch meetings and stuff—talking to people more important than Prompto, talking about things more important than Prompto. But even if they can’t eat together, Ignis probably won’t get annoyed if Prompto asks to borrow his charger, and maybe Ignis will want to eat anyway.

Prompto’s still waffling about knocking when he realizes that one of the voices is Gladio’s. He sidles closer, trying to hear through the door, ‘cause if it’s not something that sounds important, then knocking—knocking will be fine. If it’s just Ignis and Gladio, they won’t care if he interrupts them, not if they’re not talking about anything serious.

“Seriously, though, you look wiped.” Gladio’s voice sounds concerned. It’s not something Prompto’s heard a lot, concern about Ignis. Ignis is just—he always seems to have his shit together, and whenever Prompto’s heard Gladio get all stressed-and-concerned, it’s always been about Iris or Noct or even Prompto. Not Ignis. 

Ignis’s sigh is louder than his voice when he answers: “I haven’t been sleeping much, I’m afraid.”

Gladio chuckles, and Prompto feels himself begin to flush when Gladio asks, “What, is Prompto keeping you up?”

Whatever it is Ignis says, it’s too quiet for Prompto to hear. He doesn’t know if it’s even loud enough for Gladio to hear, because Gladio doesn’t respond right away. Prompto’s starting to gear himself up to actually knocking on the door when he hears Gladio curse.

“Iggy—shit, Iggy, what are you even thinking?”

Prompto can feel a pit start to grow his stomach, the same one that first came around when he got that damn rock thrown at his head in Civic Square. The pit just keeps growing as Ignis murmurs something too muffled for Prompto to make out, then says more clearly, “It’s fine, Gladio.”

“Bullshit. Iggy, you need to tell Prompto—”

“What?” Ignis interrupts. His voice is louder now, and closer to the door. Prompto rocks back on his heels, but he doesn’t leave—doesn’t think he could walk away even if he wanted to. “What do I tell him, Gladio? It’s hardly his fault. He’s as caught up in this as I am. Besides,” Ignis’s voice is farther from the door, like maybe he’s pacing his office, “it’s better than—at least he’s a friend. That’s better than I’d expected.”

“Is it really?” Gladio asks. 

Ignis laughs shortly, and even through the door Prompto can hear how it’s strained and awkward. “Perhaps I’ll have to get back to you on that. Still, at least it’s not a stranger. I’m lucky in that regard, that they asked….”

Ignis’s voice is fading again, moving farther and farther from the door. Prompto doesn’t try to listen in any longer. He’s heard enough to make him feel sick, ‘cause this is something that shows up in historical dramas, too, even if he didn’t pay enough attention; people stuck in political marriages with someone they don’t love, someone they don’t even want to touch. That’s the point, right? The whole point of political arranged marriages. It’s for the politics, not for the people inside it, and Ignis—

He walks out of the Citadel and down to the station. His legs feel heavy and stiff, like each footstep is jarring his whole body. He fumbles with his wallet and almost loses his student pass, and he stands on the platform for long minutes, staring stupidly at the schedule of trains flicking across the arrival board. When he pulls his phone out of his pocket, it’s still as dead as it was before he left campus for the Citadel. It’s a glorified brick, and that’s probably lucky, because it feels like Prompto’s head is buzzing with what he wants to say and what he wants to ask. 

By the time Prompto gets back to the apartment— _their_ apartment—his knuckles are aching from how hard he’s been clutching his phone. He ducks into the bedroom just long enough to plug in his phone. He doesn’t think he should trust himself with what he’ll say if he texts Noct now, doesn’t think he can say anything to Noct that won’t end with, _Did you ask Ignis to marry me?_ He lays his phone face down on the bedside table—the one that’s on his side of the bed—and makes himself go back out to the living room, where he won’t be able to see his phone or see the bed or see the closet he’s been sharing with Ignis for weeks now. 

The thing is, there’s not much in this apartment, not yet, and when Prompto looks around it, he’s wondering if this is why. Prompto’s got parts of his life scattered around, in bits and pieces: textbooks on the table, a comic book next to the couch, a rented movie sitting by the tv. There are parts of Ignis’s life, too: a couple recipe books stacked on the kitchen counter, a jacket hanging over the back of a chair. There’s nothing _them_ , though, not really; nothing singularly or dually them. There aren’t photos or knick knacks or ratty throws, and when Prompto looks around at how empty this stupid apartment is, he thinks, _How didn’t I see it?_

There’s nothing bringing them back here beyond the contract that has them sleeping in the same bed. Ignis stays late at the Citadel almost every day; Prompto spends most of his free time at Noct’s apartment or his parents’ house. This stupid, empty apartment is just like their stupid, empty marriage—something unwanted, pushed on them by politics and by people bigger and more powerful than them. Prompto’s comic book and Ignis’s jacket are just like the candid photos on Tonberry—photos the Citadel leaks carefully, building up a fiction. 

“Shit,” Prompto says, his voice cracking. This is—and this is for life, or as good as. This is until the Citadel says, _Alright, we’ve made our point._ He wipes his eyes and says again, “Shit.”

Ignis doesn’t come home from the Citadel until late that night, just like most every day. It gives Prompto time to cry and kick the couch, to sit at the table and bounce his leg nervously, to dunk his face in cold water until his eyes are no longer swollen and red. It gives Prompto time to play out dozens of conversations in his head, to imagine all the ways the night might go.

“Prompto,” Ignis says when he comes through the front door. Prompto’s sitting on the couch—has been sitting here for a couple hours now—and he watches as Ignis checks his watch. “It’s late. You should be sleeping; you have training early in the morning.”

Prompto swallows, then says, “I thought I’d wait up for you.”

He can see it when he watches for it: the way Ignis pauses while removing his shoes, and the way Ignis glances to the side; the way Ignis crosses the room slowly, and the way Ignis stands in front of Prompto, his hands hanging at his sides. He can see the exhaustion on Ignis’s face and he can see the distance Ignis is keeping between them; _Bullshit,_ Gladio had said, and Prompto thinks that’s it exactly—bullshit. 

“Did you want,” Ignis begins to ask, stooping low as he reaches out. His hand bumps Prompto’s knee, and Prompto thinks of how Ignis had knelt between Prompto’s legs just weeks before, how he’d asked, _Will you get hard?_

Prompto’s getting hard now, his traitorous body burning hot with arousal and shame, his muscles pulling tight with guilt and hurt. He scoots further back on the couch, trying to take his knee out of Ignis’s reach, and says, “No, I—no. I just wanted to talk.”

And Ignis looks _relieved_ at that, his whole body relaxing and losing a tension Prompto hadn’t even realized was there. He’s straightening up, pulling back so that there is space between him and Prompto again, and when he smiles tightly at Prompto, Prompto wonders a little sickly how long it’s been since he saw Ignis smile at him. (The wedding, maybe? That first night, when Ignis was sitting on the bed, waiting for Prompto to fuck him in front of people because that’s what the Council required.)

“Of course,” Ignis says. He nods toward the kitchen. “Would you care for something to drink? I assume you ate dinner already.”

“Yeah. The, um, the leftovers.” Prompto drags himself up from the couch, following as Ignis walks back toward the kitchen. He watches as Ignis moves through the kitchen, pulling out mugs and pulling down fresh coffee grounds. 

Ignis hums, then lifts a mug. “Coffee?”

“No.” Prompto clears his throat, and clears it again when it doesn’t seem to do much good. This isn’t like any of the conversations he’d imagined—the place is wrong, and so are the words. He’d imagined them sitting across the table from each other like adults, or sitting together on the couch. He’d even imagined them talking in the bedroom, Ignis sitting on the bed while Prompto stood a few feet away, like they’d been the first night, when Ignis had said, _Prompto_ , and Prompto had crawled onto the bed and further into this mess. 

What he hadn’t imagined was this: standing just inside the kitchen, far enough back that he’s out of the way as Ignis begins a pot of coffee. He hadn’t imagined talking to Ignis’s back, and now he’s thinking that was a huge oversight. 

“You’re not happy,” Prompto blurts out as he watches Ignis scoop grounds into the filter. Ignis pauses again, like he had when he saw Prompto on the couch; when he moves again, he taps the spoon against the machine, then turns so he is looking at Prompto. 

“Why do you say that?” he asks Prompto, like it’s a real question. It’s not, though—Prompto thinks that they’re way past questions, past the point where they have the privilege of asking a question and expecting an honest answer.

“You didn’t want this,” Prompto says slowly, feeling it out as fact rather than the question it can’t be. “Not the—not the marriage, and definitely not the sex. You didn’t, did you.”

There is a metallic squeal. It’s the spoon, scraping against the tile as Ignis rests his hands on the counter behind him. Ignis is looking at Prompto, and it’s like the careful, thoughtful way he used to look at Prompto years ago, back when they had first crashed together in Noct’s orbit, before they were friends. 

“I told you,” Ignis says, “that there were—that there are—expectations for Noct and Gladio, and for the marriages that they’ll make. I was hardly different. Prompto, I always expected to have a political marriage. I thought I’d marry a stranger.” Ignis shrugs, a sharp rise and fall of his shoulders. It looks too tense to be indifferent. “Marrying a friend is hardly an inconvenience.”

“Yeah, but—” Prompto waves his hands, feeling frantic with his complete inability to make the words fit together right, to explain aloud all the thoughts that have been spinning in his head since this afternoon. “That doesn’t really—I mean, not being an inconvenience doesn’t mean it’s something you want.

“Iggy,” he begs when he sees Ignis begin to open his mouth, “please. Please, just be honest. Did you really—did you want this? If it hadn’t been for, I dunno, Noct or the king or just the whole stupid—” He motions toward his head, the scar from the damn rock that’d started this whole disaster. It’s still red, as sore and tender to the touch as Prompto’s heart feels right now. “Did you want this? Any of this?”

Ignis doesn’t answer, not for a long time, and Prompto can feel the seconds ticking by, like weights beating down on his shoulders. He can hear the coffee machine spitting as the water seeps through the filter, dripping down into the pot. There’s a particularly loud gurgle right before Ignis answers:

“No.” He swallows hard enough that Prompto can see it from across the kitchen. “I didn’t. Not like this.”

It’s not a surprise, really, but it still feels like a kick to the stomach. It feels like the demoralizing kind of defeat that drags people down so far they can’t find their way back up. It’s not a surprise, but it still _hurts_ —it builds on all the hurts of the day, bruising Prompto just that bit more, enough that he thinks that he doesn’t want to get up and face the world again—not tomorrow, or the next day, or any time soon.

(God. This is for his life. This is for the rest of his life.)

The coffee machine gives a last, long gurgle, then chirps a short, bright melody that feels out of place in their kitchen, in this conversation. Ignis swallows again, then turns back toward the counter. 

“I’m sorry,” Prompto says. It’s easier to say it like this, to Ignis’s back. He watches Ignis’s shoulders rise and fall, and he wonders if Ignis is sighing or just gearing himself up for something. 

“As am I,” Ignis says, his voice low enough that Prompto can barely hear it. There is the sound of glass scraping, then a _clink_ , and Prompto listens as Ignis begins to pour the coffee. Another scrape—the pot being put back on the machine, maybe. 

“Can we just—” Prompto rubs at the corner of his eye, then shoves his hands into his pockets so Ignis won’t see if he turns around. “Can we go to bed? Just to sleep?”

Ignis doesn’t answer for several seconds, but he eventually sighs heavily and turns to pour his coffee into the sink. There is something fragile about it all—the way he turns on the faucet to rinse away the coffee, and the way he follows when Prompto leads the way to their bedroom; the way they move carefully around each other, leaving space between each other as they get ready for bed. It feels like a wrong word, or even sound, will shatter the quiet exhaustion. 

When the light goes out, Ignis is lying on his side, his back to Prompto, and Prompto is lying on his side, too, facing Ignis. _I haven’t been sleeping much,_ Ignis had told Gladio; Prompto wonders if Ignis has spent most nights lying on his side, staring across the room, trying to pick out shapes in the gray gloom. Prompto wonders if Ignis has spent most nights waiting for Prompto to touch him—to reach out and grab him, to clutch his hips and pull him backwards without asking. Prompto wonders—

“Can I touch you?” Prompto asks. He hears the sheets shift and Ignis breathe in sharply, and he stammers out, “Not like that, just—just your hand. Can I hold your hand?”

Ignis doesn’t answer, or roll over to face Prompto, but he does—after a little while of Prompto’s heart beating hard and his palms getting sweaty—reach behind him. Ignis rests his hand on the bed, open and palm up, in the space between him and Prompto. Prompto wipes his sweaty palms on his pajamas, then takes Ignis’s hand in his. 

Ignis’s hand is cold and it is trembling. Prompto holds it between both of his own hands, and he wonders if the rest of Ignis is cold and trembling, too; he wonders if Ignis has felt as unhappy and off-kilter as Prompto. He wonders how long Ignis has been clenching his hands in fists so that no one can see that they’re shaking. 

Ignis’s hand doesn’t stop trembling, but it grows warmer between Prompto’s hands. “Do you think,” Prompto asks when Ignis’s hand has grown warm, “things will get better?”

Ignis’s hand moves in Prompto’s, a little jerk that might be Ignis wanting to pull away, or maybe Ignis wanting to hold onto Prompto’s hands in return. He does neither, though, and his answer seems just as indecisive: “In time,” Ignis says, in a voice Prompto thinks he’s never heard before. 

“Okay,” Prompto says as they lie there in the dark, inches of empty space between them. He holds onto Ignis’s hand for him, in between his own two hands, and he pretends not to hear it when Ignis begins to cry.


End file.
